We'll Fall Like Soiled Angels
by taylorpotato
Summary: Jim is a drug and Sherlock's been addicted since his first taste. So when Jim decides to stage their deaths so that they can run off together, Sherlock goes along with it. Loosely based on the Sheriarty clip in the Empty Hearse. Explicit.


**Fair warning: BDSM overtones. Lingerie. Unhealthy relationships. Mentions of violence. References to drug use. Semi-dark/sociopath Sherlock. Reichenbach AU loosely based off the empty hearse clip, because who says crackpot fan theories can't be sexy?**

* * *

"What if we were different people?" Jim laughs in the dark.

He and Sherlock only exist in stolen moments. In places where nobody will look for them. Sherlock isn't technically sure if you can still consider somebody your arch nemesis once they've fucked your brains out. But he still can't make the mistake of trusting Jim completely.

"That's impossible," Sherlock snorts.

"Why? Do you know how many people I've been before? It's not difficult. We'd just have to die."

"Oh, how simple," Sherlock drawls condescendingly.

"It'll be like Romeo and Juliet," Jim giggles as he licks a line up Sherlock's neck.

When Jim's this close, it's hard to focus on anything. It's hard to think straight. That just makes him ten times more dangerous. And Sherlock's nothing if he's not an adrenaline junkie.

"If I remember correctly, that play is a tragedy," he huffs. He rolls over so he's on top. He steals a few sloppy kisses that are more teeth and tongues than anything.

"We could rewrite it. Just don't drink the poison, love."

"You're ridiculous."

And Sherlock thinks that's the end of it.

XxXxX

Except Jim never jokes about anything. The next thing Sherlock knows, they're starting a very dangerous dance. Jim likes puzzles. He likes theatrics. He likes smoke and mirrors.

He wants to make it look like they've both died. He's writing a fairy tale where they both commit suicide. In the chaotic aftermath, Jim says they'll disappear. In that smarmy, simpering voice he says, "we'll go on a honeymoon to the Bahamas. Then we'll get a nice little house in a country that doesn't have an extradition treaty with Jolly old England."

Sherlock's never been in a proper relationship before. He's not sure this thing he has with Jim could even be considered a proper relationship. It's been going on for several months, which is longer than anybody else has managed to last. But it's all about thrill seeking and insanity. It's about fucking in alleyways and stealing away to dive bars in the countryside. It involves knives and gags and no small amount of alcohol.

Sherlock doesn't think he's actually capable of love. So maybe this is the closest he'll ever get. At least he's found somebody that understands him. He's found somebody reckless and clever and utterly unpredictable.

Sherlock wonders if maybe he should let out some desperate cry for help. Maybe he should tell Mycroft that Jim is planning to take him away to god knows where, and he's not exactly sure he wants to go.

The again, he could always come back. Jim's already taught him that nothing in this world is permanent. It's best to ride out the high while you can.

XxXxX

So Sherlock's not quite ready when he ends up on the roof of Saint Bart's. He saw it coming, but not far enough in advance. He's still not quite mentally prepared for what they're about to do.

Then again, maybe this isn't a thing it's really possible to be prepared for.

Jim's grinning. He's got a corpse with eerily realistic prosthetics. It looks exactly like Sherlock. Jim has paid off the paramedics that will take the body away. They'll see that it's cremated. There won't be a trace of evidence to hint at the fact that Sherlock isn't actually dead.

Sherlock's chews on his lip and doesn't say anything. Suddenly it's all so very real. It's not a game anymore. They're actually running off together. It feels big and terrifying.

It feels like commitment, and that's a thing Sherlock has always avoided by any means necessary.

But Jim grabs the lapels of Sherlock's greatcoat and pulls him down into a demanding, punishing kiss. Its all adrenaline and intoxication. Jim is a drug. Sherlock's been an addict since his first taste.

"What do you say, love?" He purrs. "Do you want to just get this over with, or should we have a bit of fun first? We've got some time."

He doesn't wait for an answer before he dips his fingers under the waistband of Sherlock's trousers. Sherlock's heart thuds out a perfect waltz.

"Oh... naughty boy." Jim smirks he's found the lacy edge of the knickers Sherlock put on that morning. It's a habit that Jim's caused. The panties don't do much for Sherlock on their own. But he really does enjoy Jim's reaction to them. He'll usually wear them if he suspects that he'll run into Jim at some point that day.

Maybe the reason he's doing this is because he knows that it's more than sex. There's a mental aspect to it as well. It's the head games. The tense feeling of being constantly scrutinized. It keeps him in fight or flight mode.

They're both predators, but sometimes Sherlock enjoys feeling like prey.

Jim looses Sherlock's belt buckle and unzips his trousers. The fabric pools around Sherlock's ankles. He feels exposed—because this particular lacy thong leaves absolutely nothing to the imagination. He feels ridiculous because he's still fully dressed above the waist.

The world is quiet and surreal. The wind blows around them. Sherlock's actually a bit cold. But Jim's warm hand grasps Sherlock's prick through the thin fabric.

Yes.

It seems Sherlock is going to let Jim lead this mad little dance after all. Because for once, he's thinking with his cock instead of his brain.

Jim pulls out a packet of lubricant. He always carries them. He's quite fond of sex in very public places and he likes to be prepared. He rips the foil and drizzles the lube onto his fingers. He slides the back of the thong aside and brushes against Sherlock's arsehole.

Surprisingly, he's always been quite gentle with this part. He circles his finger and teases for a small eternity so that Sherlock's muscles relax and let his finger slide forward without much of a fuss. Sherlock presses his face into Jim's shoulder and breathes heavily. It's not like anybody could really see them. They're standing towards the middle of the roof. But they're very much out in the open. It's reckless and heady and—fuck.

Jim's finger begins to slide relentlessly over the same spot and he doesn't stop until Sherlock lets out a little groan. Even then, he only pauses to add another finger.

"I am going to bend you over the ledge and fuck you until you scream," Jim whispers in a honey-sweet voice that's far more dangerous than shouting.

He never makes idle promises.

Perhaps, at the back of Sherlock's mind, he's thinking about consequences. He never properly learned the difference between right and wrong, but this seems like something John would yell at him about. It's probably not a normal thing to do—to leave your entire life behind and run away with a lunatic master criminal.

Then again, people have done stranger things in the name of lust.

Jim's got three fingers inside Sherlock now and his higher thought processes are rapidly deteriorating. Maybe some part of him wants to think about this. Maybe some part of him has doubts.

Most of him is far more interested in the glorious things Jim's fingers are doing.

Maybe it won't be so bad, if it's always like this. If they just fuck and flirt with danger constantly. After all, Sherlock's spent his entire life chasing down the next puzzle, the next dopamine rush, the next distraction. It seems like he's found a person that he'll never be able to figure out completely. He's found an unsolvable problem and he couldn't be happier about it.

Jim withdraws his fingers abruptly. He grabs hold of Sherlock's wrist with his dry hand and drags him towards the ledge. Sherlock shuffles along because it's a bit too late to argue. He doesn't want to argue. They head for the side of the building facing away from the main street. But people could still see them. It's thrilling.

Jim unzips his trousers and pulls his cock out. He doesn't bother to do anything but push Sherlock's coat up and out of the way, and pull the thong to the side. Sherlock holds onto the ledge, pressing his stomach against it, so his head and chest hang over the edge. His knees are on the ground. Jim's behind him, kneeling between his parted legs. It's a fairly stable position, but they could still overbalance. It's several kinds of danger at once. No wonder he can't quit.

He feels it. The blunt head of Jim's cock pressing against him. It's always a rather alarming stretch at first. It's terrifying in most of the ways Jim is terrifying. It's entirely too much with hints of not enough.

Jim slides forward slow, but certain. Sherlock can't breathe. He keeps thinking about falling. In a way, that's what he's doing. Sherlock has never been in over his head before. He's always had the upper hand. But he suspects that maybe this is the way he makes other people feel. Scared, enamored and desperate all at once.

Jim wraps his hands around Sherlock's hips and picks up speed. Sherlock bites down on his lip, trying to keep quiet. Because there are people about. If he makes too much noise, they could attract attention to themselves.

Wouldn't that be an interesting headline? Insane detective caught fucking an out of work actor on a rooftop.

He lets out a surprised little grunt when Jim manages to drag across the right spot. And oh. Yes. Sherlock reaches down and slips a hand underneath the lacy panties. He starts to stroke his cock slowly. Panting. Sweating.

The tremendous feeling isn't only due to the gathering tension, the excited nerve endings and raging reward chemicals. But the physical sensations are really the only thing Sherlock can focus on.

Jim leans down to bite Sherlock on the neck. Everything's gone fast and sloppy. It's like jumping, in the end. His stomach still lurches with fear and anticipation. He trembles and he can't help but let out a small groan.

Toppling over the edge of orgasm has never been a more accurate description.

His body is a synchronous spasm. A flood of pleasure and hazy intoxication. He's been high on cocaine plenty of times, but he's never gotten this high off another person.

Jim grunts behind him. Slams forward for perhaps another minute or two, then he tenses. He withdraws after a moment and Sherlock can feel his come starting to dribble back out.

They get dressed again, even though they both look thoroughly debauched. Jim sets the corpse up on the ledge and he hands Sherlock the rope that's holding it up.

"All right, darling," Jim smirks. "It's show time."

Sherlock presses the call button on his mobile.

"John..."


End file.
